Best Stands Forever
by TraditionalGaily
Summary: In which Buccellati and Abbacchio share an uneventful morning in a hotel room, heightened by some second-hand pleasure.


_Summary:_

_Waking up in a bed other than one's own can be a confidence boosting experience. _  
_However it isn't for Abbacchio. _  
_Not given the circumstances.  
__That both his and Buccellati's Stands are making out on the floor is not helping either. _

_In which Buccellati and Abbacchio share an uneventful morning in a hotel room, heightened by some second-hand pleasure. _

* * *

_That's not my bed. _

Abbacchio woke with that thought sloshing around in his brain.

Neither did the salt-and-pepper ceiling, glanced at through half-lidded eyes, strike him as familiar.

Curtains drawn, the soothing pitter-patter of raindrops against the glass and the humid air carrying that salty tinge of the sea side; all in all the perfect set up for a morning to sleep in.

No plans for today either; a rare gem; a genuine day off.  
Time to recline and relax.

And what better way to start this precious 24h than by getting plenty of rest under the cosy duvet...

Fingers playfully nestling up against his thighs, Abbacchio closed his eyes again.

Plus, he got to share that morning with someone.

A hand was running down Abbacchio's back.  
Fingers carefully entangling with his hair.  
A soft kiss placed on his bare shoulder; hot breath trailing down his neck, before he was grabbed from behind and spooned against.

Indeed this could have been a well deserved morning-after with a hot one-night stand following a sleepless night of passionate love-making.

Only that it wasn't.

Truth was, he was staying in a hotel after a long hard day of preparations for a thing to go off (Hopefully not literally, but with Bruno you never knew.) in a few days.  
Some Passione hierarchy bullshit Buccellati had been dragged into, but he wouldn't bore his team with the details. (Like dates, times and people involved. Or places. Where the hell where they staying?)  
Not a big deal and so on, and as Buccellati had put it: Abbacchio would suffice. (Fuck you too, Bruno!).

Giorno was left in command.  
(Proof that Bruno had learned nothing out of the Coco Jumbo incident. Apparently turning a broken vase into an otter was not a good covering-scheme, neither was transforming glass shards, splintered wood and cracks in the wall into butterflies, bugs and morning glories; but of course Bruno had to go on about the positive influence of greenery in working places. Turns out the palms and ferns growing out of the jewel weren't concerning him the least. Or the elephants trumpeting in the distance. And yes, even after two glasses of wine Abbacchio could tell the difference between a car horn and an elephant.)

And the rest of the team didn't object. (Fuck them, too!)

So Abbacchio bid farewell to the intact roof that would have camphor trees and sequoias growing through it upon their return.

Buccellati had asked him whether he would mind sharing a room (With separate beds! God, why was Abbacchio so needy?!).  
Keeping costs low and such.  
Abbacchio had stated truthfully that he wouldn't.  
That was his first mistake.

And so upon awakening Abbacchio found out that their capo was secretly a human-leech cross-bred that had crawled into his bed to spoon.  
And cuddle.

Not knowing how to handle this kind of stuff, Abbacchio had shut his eyes at the soft touch of warm skin rubbing against him and pretended to be fast asleep.

It didn't work.

Pouting lips nipping and sucking their way across Abbacchio's neck, one hand reached between his legs, playfully exploring his inner thighs as they trailed circle after circle closer to his nether region.  
The middle finger almost hooking onto his hipbone the other fingers rubbed and caressed against this tender spot; Abbacchio couldn't bite back a moan. (How had Bruno found out where he liked it? Had he done this before? Just like in the old saying: never trust a man who can zip himself into your room while you sleep...)

A wet tongue tracing his jaw line before licking the nape of his neck did it then.

Great, Abbacchio thought, now he would have to get rid of Buccellati _and_ his boner.  
He wished he had worn more than his boxers. (Like maybe an anorak, so Bruno wouldn't find his dick...)  
At least he would have felt less exposed...

Abbacchio's second mistake.

Feigning ignorance Abbacchio stretched and yawned extensively as if waking up.  
But against his expectations Buccellati did not leap from Abbacchio's back into his own bed, but kept caressing and stroking his lower abdomen.

"Bruno, what are you doing?" Abbacchio whispered (When had they started calling each other by their given names when it was just the two of them?), but moaned as his cock was felt up and rubbed shyly through his boxers.

Rolling onto his stomach was futile; somehow Buccellati managed to slip his arm underneath Abbacchio's trembling body and guided his twitching member with gentle strokes until fully erect.

"Stop, Bruno...uh..."

His body giving in to the seductive strokes (This stopped being foreplay five minutes ago...), Abbacchio bit his lip, fighting off the urge to cream his pants.  
He wouldn't let Buccellati have him like this.  
Not without Buccellati buying a drink first.

"Bruno, no...I"

He reached for Buccellati's hand tantalising his balls.  
And moved right through it.

"You two should be ashamed of yourselves!" Abbacchio growled at the Stand mêlée which would either answer to 'Sticky Blues' or 'Moody Fingers'.

It hadn't been sex-starved Buccellati pouncing on asleep, defenceless and vulnerable Abbacchio. (Those sure were unhealthy fantasies he nurtured, but it couldn't be helped.)

Moody Blues had simply freed himself from drowsy Abbacchio and woken up Sticky Fingers for some early morning exercise.  
Disgusting.

"And will you two get off the floor for fuck's sake? Go on, go for it in the shower or on the sofa, you know, like normal people..."

His lecture falling on deaf ears (better yet: none), Sticky Blues continued where they had left off: spooning with prospects of doggy styling. Maybe even cowgirling, if Sticky Fingers was in the mood for it.  
Either way it equalled one thing: rug burn.

"Fucking Stands!"  
No pun intended.

So yes, Abbacchio had been involuntarily participating in the early morning kiss and cuddle Sticky Fingers had treated Moody Blues to.  
No capo forcing himself onto his most loyal subordinate.  
No harm done.

Just Abbacchio, suffering once again at the hands of their love-sick Stands.

_How can he sleep with all that noise going on?_ Abbacchio kept asking himself.

Fact was, Buccellati was still out like a candle, curled into a ball of relaxed capo and squirmed free of his blanket.

Stands couldn't moan.  
No, Sticky Fingers could moan (Pathetic little moaner, just like his User!), his Stand minus a mouth couldn't moan.  
But he could click, play white noise or churn like those little whistle-like toys for children. (Manufactured solemnly for the purpose of keeping parents and neighbours awake at two o'clock in the morning.)  
And only recently he started doing _this_ when getting excited.

_'Yesterday everything seemed to be alright  
'Til I woke up in the dawn  
My life I'd give you for one sweet day  
To be home again and loved'_

Why, oh God why, did he have a fucking radio for a Stand?!

Moreover Abbacchio could hardly agree on Moody Blues choice 'songs to play while getting it off'.  
There were classics, though.  
Which made Abbacchio suspicious what decade those broadcasts originated from.

Also he had a tendency towards Blues and Folk if kept for too long from Sticky Fingers.  
(Moody Bastard...from now on, Abbacchio decided, he'd refer to his Stand like this.)

Also during the transmissions BSF would replace the counter on his display.  
He just fucking new it to Stand for (hah!) Best Stands Forever, still Abbacchio preferred to play dumb on that part for his own sanity.

Back to the topic, how could Buccellati sleep through this?

He'd drawn nearer to the former's bed out of curiosity.  
And gently sat down on its edge for confirmation.

Sleeping like a log, alright.  
And quietly moaning while doing so.

_Shit. _

Abbacchio could feel the elastic in his boxers straining against his revived manhood, twitching and pounding against it.

But why he'd lain down, spooning him, he couldn't fathom a guess.

Something in the line of: if his Stand was keeping him awake, the least he could do was to return the favour.

It wasn't true of course.  
He'd lain down because it felt so goddamn good to feel someone for a change.  
Not Mista held in a headlock for (you name the reason, he'd done it); bare skin on bare skin (Good thing Bruno was as scarcely dressed as himself), the fine texture of his muscles beneath his fingers.  
His body warmth.  
His scent...

Just feeling, slightly touching and caressing.

And boy did the occasional sigh and moan from (yep, still sleeping Bruno; how did his Stand get out then?) those pouting lips make Abbacchio feel good about himself.  
And life.  
About everything.  
He felt like telling Giorno that he only mildly hated him and wished him a quick and painless death.  
(Nothing could entirely rid him off his grudge against Goldilocks...)

A curious hand slipped naughtily between Buccellati's thighs confirmed his mutual arousal.

Stands are bastards, Abbacchio thought rubbing himself through the thin fabric.

He'd never beaten off while sharing a room with Buccellati.

Abbacchio probably had. In his first weeks after Bruno had saved him. They'd been at pretty close quarters (quite literally) and he'd done a few things he wasn't too proud of. Luckily he'd been drunk for the better part of it, so he wouldn't remember afterwards...

But never like this, wanting to; getting turned on by the idea of him waking up in the process and joining in. (Or staring at him with those gorgeous blues eyes before zipping him into tiny pieces and flushing his remains down the toilet. You never knew with Bruno...)

Alright, if he'd wake from the 'thing' poking him in the back Abbacchio could still say: 'Your Stand started this, you'll finish it.' (Only he wouldn't have the balls to do so; awkwardly mumbling something into himself instead.)

Buccellati was panting now, hips bucking (Was he really rutting against the pillow between his legs? No dignity.), thereby rubbing his backside against Abbacchio's confined but now fully hard cock, drops of pre-cum staining the stretched out fabric.

_Fuck. _  
But in a good way.

While Buccellati squirmed under the ghostly feeling of substitutionally riding Moody Blues, he seemed somewhat desperate for a little attention himself.  
So Abbacchio helped him.

Whether this could be considered consensual (No, it wasn't, and he knew it!) or if Buccellati would murder him on the spot once he'd find out remained to be seen.  
Anyway, Abbacchio couldn't care less, high on adrenaline for feeling every slam, every thrust into Sticky Fingers' warm ass (But he could still imagine it to be Bruno's.) while jacking off Buccellati, thankfully moaning into his pillow.

Buccellati bit his lower lip while he came.  
(Did people really do that? And there Leone Abbacchio had been under the impression that this was only a thing shown in movies.)

"Mhm...Leone..."

Abbacchio froze.  
Problem was Moody Blues didn't and so Abbacchio felt the pulsing rush rampaging in his loins without being able to hold it back.  
Coming when he really didn't want to felt awkward.

Good news was, Buccellati was still sound asleep and had probably been talking in his sleep. (Still weird as fuck.)  
Bad news was he hadn't been able to grab a tissue in time.

_Fuck. _

Tissue eventually fished out between the mess on Buccellati's bedside table (You can create pockets on yourself, use them, for fuck's sake!), Abbacchio wiped away the few drops of cum he'd sprinkled Buccellati's back with.  
(God he needed to do a replay of this scene with Moody Blues later on.  
And take a picture.)

Then he leapt from Buccellati's into his own bed and curled into his duvet so Buccelati wouldn't see his creamed pants.

With a long-drawn hum Buccellati stretched in a way usually reserved for felines exclusively.  
Then he rolled over, spotting Moody Fingers rutting against each other in the afterglow of their orgasm.

"At it at this time of the morning? Good for you..."

Buccellati yawned some more before rolling onto his side.

"But keep it down, will you. I don't want you to wake up Abbacchio..."


End file.
